Meanwhile Beaumanoir had called an esquire forward, Guillaume de Montauban by name, and given him the honor that Du Guesclin had forfeited. Bertrand stood listening to the casual ignominy that was being flung by those about him at his courage. Even when challenged as Robin Raguenel, and asked for a judgment concerning his own honor, he grimaced behind his visor, and answered gruffly that he would not condemn a Breton man unheard.
The sacrament of the mass came to silence all these cavilling tongues. Bertrand knelt with the rest, grim and silent, wondering whether Robin guessed how much this ordeal meant to him. He covered the mezail of his bassinet with his hand when he lifted the visor and took the bread. His one prayer was that this dallying should not be long, for he was fierce and ready for the English swords. Soon the Gloria had been sung, and the priest, facing eastward under the oak, had offered the Gratio ad Complendum.
“Ite, missa est!” came the cry. And a hundred strong voices shouted, “Deo Gratias!”
The English were drawn up where the highway to Ploermel broadened into a smooth stretch of grass and sand. Croquart and five Netherlanders were to fight for Bamborough, also four Bretons, for the true-born English mustered but twenty. Bamborough, who had stood laughing and jesting while the Bretons were hearing mass, turned to his “thirty,” and gave them his last words.
“Sirs,” he said, “I have read in Merlin’s books that we shall have the victory. Let us kill or take Beaumanoir and his men and carry them prisoners to Edward our king.”
Beaumanoir, more devout and less boastful, kissed the cross of his sword, and held it high above his head.
“Friends, may God make us increase in virtue. Keep a good countenance, and hold fast together.”
The sun streamed out from behind a cloud when the two bristling banks of steel surged towards each other over the heather. St. George and St. Ives, good saints, were hailed perforce into the struggle. The dust smoked up into the sunlight so that those who watched the fight could see but vaguely how matters sped. Sword and axe, mace and bill, clashed and tossed like the play of counter-currents in some narrow strait. Shields were cloven, plumes shorn away, men thrown down and trampled underfoot. Through the drifting dust the armed figures flashed like flames struggling through a pall of smoke.
From the first rush the English party had the upper hand, being bigger men and more hardened to the trade of arms. Croquart the Fleming broke to and fro, charging like a boar, hurling men aside, and making the shields and steel plates ring with the thunder of his heavy mace. He hunted out Bertrand in the press, and beat him down with a side blow on the bassinet. It was the Sieur de Tinteniac who sprang forward over Bertrand’s body, and held Croquart back till the fesse of silver shone out again.
“Grace to you, sire!” And Bertrand flew at the Fleming with his axe, but lost his man in the shifting of the fight.